


Good Old-Fashioned Mycroft Holmes

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Matchmaker!Mycroft, The Ritz, Tuxedos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-24
Updated: 2010-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Probably ‘Mycroft thinks we deserve a treat’ are the creepiest words John will ever hear coming out of Sherlock’s mouth, ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Old-Fashioned Mycroft Holmes

_**Good Old-Fashioned Mycroft Holmes [oneshot]**_  
 **Title** : Good Old-Fashioned Mycroft Holmes  
 **Pairing** : Sherlock/John  
 **Rating** : PG  
 **Word Count** : ~5600  
 **Summary** : Probably ‘Mycroft thinks we deserve a treat’ are the creepiest words John will ever hear coming out of Sherlock’s mouth, _ever_.  
 **Warnings** : Fluff, angst, couuuple of swears, probably.  
 **Beta** : The fantastical [](http://ebonystar.livejournal.com/profile)[**ebonystar**](http://ebonystar.livejournal.com/) , to whom I owe my firstborn.  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Godtiss or anyone remotely cool :(  
 **A/N** : If you guess what this is loosely based on, I will probably love you forever. Just sayin'.

‘“We’re going out tonight.” Sherlock’s listless voice floats over from the sofa, and John’s hand stops mid-stir. Sighing, he contemplates the evening he’d had planned in his head: tea (which he’s already made a start on; he gazes down at it apologetically), toast and crap telly. It had sounded blissful the whole way home while he’d been constructing it, and he’d been looking forward to his slobby night in possibly a bit too much. Now, it seems, Sherlock’s made other plans for him.

“Going out?”

To Sherlock Holmes, ‘going out’ can mean a plethora of different things. While a normal person would consider an exciting evening perhaps… going to the cinema or going out for dinner, a Sherlock Holmes Evening could consist of anything from an interruption of a gang heist to crouching in a smelly alleyway, covered in shit, waiting for a murderer to return to his hideout. John stares down at his tea and the promise it once held and wants to cry.

“Do you have a tuxedo?” is Sherlock’s reply; John wonders if his mother ever told him it was rude to answer a question with another question. He sighs. Surely his general appearance should convey to Sherlock that no, John really _doesn’t_ own a tuxedo. What on Earth he would need one for, he doesn’t know.

“…No.” He eventually, and reluctantly, pulls his hand away from the steaming mug and sticks his head around the corner to get the detective in his view. “Sherlock, I-”

“Well you need one. There’s a car coming to pick us up at seven.”

John doesn’t even need to look at his watch to know the time; he’s just got back, it’s half past six. And Sherlock is lying on the settee, hands over his eyes, still in his pyjamas and silk dressing gown. That’s normally a good indicator of the time anyway; if Sherlock’s in his dressing gown when you get home, it’s time to _back the hell away_ or you’ll get embroiled in something you really won’t need after just getting in from a gruelling shift.  
“Christ, Sherlock, you’re telling me this now?” John starts to violently undress himself, which isn’t very productive but hopefully it’ll indicate to Sherlock how inconvenient and _annoying_ it is, having this sprung on him like that. He forgets that Sherlock still has his hands on his face and he can’t see him at all. Wait, why does he-? Forget it. “ _Why_ aren’t you dressed? I’m guessing you’ve known this all day?”

Sherlock removes his hands from his eyes but the action’s laboured, like it’s taken the entirety of his strength and willpower to commit to the gesture and John should really feel privileged that he’s done it at all. He turns his head, and with the tone and imperiousness of a god, speaks:

“Mycroft’s paying.”

John immediately can see the upside in that. However, to Sherlock Holmes, this is a travesty worthy of the front page of the Times in a public condemnation of the deplorable act. John wants to just tell him, _grow up_ , but he’s wary of the smart-arse comment and really, now, as he thinks of it, he’s wondering what’s fuelling the gesture.

“…Why?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in the punch-inducing way that only Sherlock can do, “He’s taking us out. Apparently, he thinks we deserve a treat.”

Probably ‘Mycroft thinks we deserve a treat’ are the creepiest words John will ever hear coming out of Sherlock’s mouth, _ever_. He freezes with his t-shirt halfway up his torso.

“He’s not… coming with us… is he?”

 _If he is_ , John decides, _I know where Sherlock keeps the handcuffs and I’m cuffing myself to the oven_.

Sherlock’s tongue darts out to wet his lips; his frown relaxes somewhat, but it’s still there. “Thankfully, no.” He watches as John almost deflates with relief in front of him and continues to undress. Since the establishment of their ‘relationship’ (it seems lax to call it that, but it really is the only word that’ll vaguely encompass what they have) John had been growing more and more self-confident. Perhaps regular sex did that to you, making you more susceptive to stripping off at the slightest inclination, nod or wink. But John’s lost the embarrassment that used to cripple him before, and Sherlock truly does not mind. He’s pretty much seen it all, anyway, but repetition doesn’t make it any less potent.

It’s then that Sherlock realises that for once in his life, he’s completely forgotten what he was supposed to be saying. It may have something to do with the fact that John’s pulling off his socks and faffing with his belt. Eventually it comes back to him.

“It’s more of what you’d call a date.”

John’s hands stop on his belt; Sherlock’s breath hitches. “Mycroft’s taking us on a _date_?”

“No, John.” The detective’s eyes close half in exasperation, half to prevent his mind from skipping down that path when he’s got to be out in public in half an hour, “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Just get dressed. And put on that aftershave I like.”

“But I don’t even have a-”

“On the bed.”

John doesn’t fret for a minute that it won’t be the right size, or that the legs will be too long, or that it just won’t look right. Because Sherlock is Sherlock, and if that’s not enough, he has his brother. The brother that right now, John’s not sure whether to thank or… be concerned about.

“Thanks.” He murmurs, and disappears upstairs to make himself presentable.

-

When he emerges twenty-five minutes later, with his hair immovable even in a force ten gale and positively reeking of the approved aftershave, Sherlock is sitting upright on the sofa in an immaculate tuxedo, smoking a cigarette. After taking a minute to process just how damn good the man looks when he makes an effort, John pipes up.

“Bad news for breathing.” He reprimands casually, sliding in next to his lover on the leather.

“Good news for stress.” Sherlock responds, exhaling.

“Bad news if you want to get lucky tonight.”

Their eyes meet. There’s a hint of a smirk on the lips of the detective as he brings the cigarette to his mouth and breathes in again. John watches him, unable to decide if the sight is attractive or not. The smell certainly isn’t, and he’s wearing an entire bottle of Ralph Lauren. Sherlock rolls his eyes and stubs the end out on the arm of the sofa, chuckling as he reads John’s thoughts on his face.

“I’ll have a mint, or something. And she’s not even noticed the table yet, so I doubt this will fall in her radar.”

Ah, yes, the table. The table that _someone_ may have spilt some form of highly toxic and corrosive chemicals on, and now the wood’s gone purple. Okay, yes, maybe it was John but _he_ wasn’t the one who’d rested the beaker there ‘just for a moment’. The little details may be the most important to Sherlock Holmes, but his ‘moments’ can last from what they are supposed to be – a moment – to months on end. “Keep hold of this bag, would you, John? Just for a moment” had turned into Lestrade turning up at their door with steam virtually coming out of his ears, demanding why John was withholding evidence. Sometimes, really, John despairs. But it’s mostly worth it for sights like these: Sherlock’s smirk sliding into an actual smile as they stare at each other, both feeling ridiculous but revelling in the shared experience.

“I feel a bit like James Bond.” John remarks and the smile goes, just like that. Luckily the look of derision that John is treated to instead at least has a _hint_ of playfulness behind it.

“What _am_ I going to do with you…” Sherlock mutters, taking John by the hand and pulling him up onto his feet. John anticipates the car horn and just as he’s marvelling at how Sherlock could possibly know about the appearance of the vehicle before it’s even there, the detective in question leans in and kisses him. Just once, just quickly, but it’s on the lips and it’s enough to wipe all thought out of John’s brain instantly.

Then, as he pulls away, Sherlock announces: “This is going to be horrible.”

A distant car horn sounds and he begins to stride towards the door, only pausing when he doesn’t hear the sounds of clumsier feet mirroring him. Sherlock turns back with a questioning glance; John replies with a raise of his eyebrows.

“I meant… not _you_ , John. Just. Come on.” As John catches up and accepts the hand offered out to him, Sherlock adds: “Let’s get this over and done with.”

A smack on the arm silences him, but the pair are grinning as they step out of 221 Baker Street and into the leather interior of the blacked-out Mercedes.

-

John really does feel like James Bond when they are greeted by a chaperone the moment they pull up outside their destination. By the look on Sherlock’s face he’s not expecting the sight greeting him to be the illuminations of The Ritz either. It’s halfway between surprise and revulsion, and John’s stomach tightens. He himself is having trouble processing firstly why they’re there, and secondly why the hell Mycroft would spend so much money on the brother who detests him.

They’re escorted through the doors and various reception rooms by a silent man with slicked back hair and a wisp of a moustache, but Sherlock makes no remarks about his family history or love life as they make the journey to the restaurant that John assumes is their denouement. Normally John would be muttering warnings under his breath and using mild violence to halt Sherlock’s inappropriate utterances, but this time he’s almost coaxing him into it. It’s bizarre, it’s wrong… but then again it’s wrong because it _isn’t_ bizarre. Sherlock is behaving perfectly acceptably for the social situation and it’s almost laughable because this is putting John on edge more than Sherlock’s impropriety ever has. He reaches out for the detective’s hand (that had slipped away at some point between the car and here; their fingers were linked the whole car journey and John remembers this being remarkable) but Sherlock’s walking with his hands clenched together in front of him, staring ahead like he’s absorbed in thought. John knows he’s probably absorbed in trying _not_ to think. Or he’s planning the brutal and vicious murder of his brother. One of the two.

“In here, gentlemen.” The chaperone instructs in a soft, dainty voice that John immediately dislikes, but he smiles at the man anyway and nods, leading the way into the dining room that’s decked out in all shades of decadence.

Walking in to the room is like stepping into Pride and Prejudice, although John won’t admit he read the book and swooned over Darcy. He gazes at the swooping peach curtains flanked by the intricate golden chandeliers; there must be over twenty of them in the room, not counting the gigantic centrepiece. It’s that (surrounded on all sides by what looks like a Renaissance fresco but is probably just a very good imitation) that catches John’s eye and causes him to bump right into the closest table to the entrance, which luckily has no occupants but it’s still embarrassing nonetheless. A middle-aged couple sipping champagne nearby turn to frown at the disruption, and John’s sure he hears tutting coming from behind him. But when he turns to Sherlock to gauge the man’s reaction, his face is expressionless, unchanged by the opulence before him, completely unperturbed. John doesn’t quite know what to say.

They’re led to their table; Sherlock seats himself down opposite the doctor but doesn’t look up from the napkin lying in front of him. He doesn’t say thank you when it’s placed on his lap (although that should be a given, really), or when he’s handed the gold-embossed menu that probably costs more than John’s best pair of shoes. When John opens it and glances at the prices of the starters, the colour drains from his face.

“Are you sure that-” He begins to Sherlock but is cut off by an overzealous waiter with some obvious deductive powers of his own.

“The bill will be settled by Mr Mycroft Holmes, gentlemen. Enjoy your meal.”

Then they are left alone, well, as alone as you can be in a room full of diners in The Ritz Restaurant, no less. Sherlock immediately sets towards choosing his starter, but John can guess that he’s merely doing it to look busy.

“I was thinking of the scallops.” He suggests, testing out his theory, “What about you?”

In reality, John is feeling quite overwhelmed by the whole experience. He’s not entirely sure what scallops are, but they’re being served with bacon so that makes them a viable option. In fact, he’s not even sure he’s ever spent twenty-five pounds on a single course in a restaurant before. He’s never quite had the option, or the money, to.

Sherlock merely makes an “mmm” sound of appreciation that makes John’s eyes narrow.

“Sherlock.” He is answered by silence. “ _Sherlock_. For God’s sake, if you’re going to be like this the whole-”

“For your information, I am _trying_ to select my starter. I would be more successful in this if you could keep quiet for more than two seconds at a time. If that is _at all_ possible.” When Sherlock is in turn answered by silence, he nods and looks back down at his menu. “Thank you.”

Then there’s silence that isn’t really silence at all; it’s murmurs and gossip and small talk and chatter but it’s continuing on around them, highlighting the absence of their speech and making John feel more awkward by the second. Sherlock is studying the menu like it’s a piece of centuries-old parchment full of secrets, or the plans to a criminal mastermind’s underground lair. John can do nothing but watch him peruse the document, for he’s already chosen his meal – having an underdeveloped palette limits your choices somewhat – and staring around the room at everyone else just makes him feel gauche. Here he is, dressed up to the nines, and he can’t even get his lover to acknowledge him.

John can safely say he’s never been stood up for a piece of card before.

After what seems like ten thousand hours but is in reality probably only five minutes, he can take the tension no longer and gestures to the table’s centrepiece.

“We’ve got a candle.” He ventures. Sherlock looks up from his menu, exhales a sort of “huh” noise and drops his gaze again. “You know, like in… you remember Angelo’s?”

“Wonderful, John.” The detective replies without averting his eyes. John clears his throat, once, and is about to suggest something else when they’re interrupted – or saved, John thinks – by the same enthusiastic waiter who had seated them before. He’s grinning almost ear to ear, which frankly looks painful, and brandishing an expensive looking bottle of champagne.

“Champagne, gentlemen?” He offers, holding out the bottle like it’s his firstborn.

“That’d be lovely.” John replies, at exactly the same time Sherlock says, louder: “No.”

“No?” Smiley waiter says and speaks for both him and the army doctor.

“No _thank you_.” Sherlock amends. His eyes are still on the menu, and John wants to burn it. He turns back to the waiter, smiling apologetically but inside screaming expletives.

“We will have the champagne, please.”

Sherlock tuts.

“Of course, gentlemen.” The waiter agrees with a smiling frown and sets about filling John’s glass with a dexterity that goes unnoticed by both the men at the table. When he turns the neck up with a flourish and approaches Sherlock’s flute, the detective is there before a single drop leaves the darkened glass.

“Not for me, thanks.”

There’s not an ounce of civility in the phrase, and John almost marvels at his companion’s ability to turn politeness into insolence. The waiter scurries off with a nod and a badly suppressed squeak of shame.

John rounds on the man across from him immediately, “Well _that_ wasn’t necessary.”

“Necessary? I would think so, if I’m to avoid my brother’s affected acts of generosity.”

“It’s just champagne, Sherlock.”

John doesn’t mention that he’d accept free champagne from _Anderson_ if he were confident it wasn’t poisoned. Free bubbly isn’t something that rolls around very often, and John likes to think he’s pertinacious enough to seize every opportunity he can get. Especially when the bottle probably costs more than he earns in a year, and _Mycroft_ is forking out for it.

“You seem awfully eager to roll over and accept my brother’s bribery. I’d suspect you had an ulterior motive if I couldn’t read you like Milton.” Sherlock suggests in his indolent, lethargic way that John just _hates_. The tone of voice does the dual job of making Sherlock seem holier-than-thou, and John feel inconsequential. He’s starting to long for his cup of tea and repeats of The Vicar Of Dibley.

“Is there anything wrong with taking advantage of the moment?”

“Yes, if Mycroft is supplying said moment.”

“Oh _come on_ , this is just ridiculous. What the hell has he done to piss you off this much?”

Sherlock looks up from his menu and slides it away from him across the immaculate tablecloth, “Exist.”

John begins to chew on the inside of his mouth.

“I want a cigarette.” Sherlock announces suddenly after a brief pause.

“You’re not having a cigarette.” John counteracts, “Smoking ban.”

 _Also, I won’t want to get anywhere near you if you do_. But he doesn’t voice that.

Sherlock gazes around in a vague, dismissive sort of manner and then turns back to John, placing both of his palms down flat on the table.

“I want a cigarette.”

“Are you- are you a bloody _child_? No!” Sherlock opens his mouth but, for once, is cut off before any sound can escape. “You know I don’t like it, and it’s bad for you. And could you… just- are you able to act like a normal human being for _just another half an hour_? Please?”

Eyebrows are raised and furrowed, respectively.

“You and I both know how likely that is, John.” Sherlock smirks, and John gives up.

-

Starters and Main Courses are ordered; the former is consumed in relative silence, save for a couple of coughs and clinks of cutlery. Sherlock attacks his lobster salad with all the grace of a champion cage fighter, stabbing the hard shell like he’s engaged in a reconstruction of a particularly vicious murder. At one point he even uses his hands, and John can do nothing but observe the discomfited waiters hovering nearby, too frightened of the detective’s imposing presence to say anything. John simply picks at his scallops and decides that he doesn’t really like them, whatever they are. He settles for consuming the barely-there slivers of bacon that taste more like air than any of the sarnies he’s devoured on various Sunday mornings.

Once the plates are cleared and John’s champagne glass is less than half full, he settles on endeavouring to reinstate the conversation again. As if accomplished in mind reading, Sherlock chooses that exact moment to let out a long, languid sigh that reminds the doctor just why he’d been utilising the silent treatment.

“Sherlock! Stop it. Couldn’t you at least _try_ and pretend you’re having a good time?”

The detective scoffs, his pupils shooting skywards and then falling to the table again, “Oh I do that far too much, don’t you think?”

“Far too _little_ , you mean! You know, Sherlock, sometimes people want their feelings spared rather than the cold hard truth all the time.”

“And is that what you want, now? Your _feelings_ spared?”

“What I want,” John leans forward, his face almost level with the champagne settled in his glass, “is for you to stop spoiling this dinner by being… petulant.”

“Petulant? You’re taking offence at minor aspects of my demeanour and you’re calling me petulant? Really, Doctor Watson, I thought you were above being hypocritical.”

John flinches; the insult stings more than normal. He’ll take Sherlock’s retorts and attacks on his character, yes, he takes them like clockwork, but he hasn’t been ‘Doctor Watson’ for months. He leans back in his chair, massaging his brow with the fingers on his right hand. The left hand is still on the table, hovering towards his fork. Sherlock’s probably already deduced that John’s thinking of stabbing his companion with it.

The silence completes the minute, and John lets his right hand join his left on the tabletop.

“Why do you always have to be so difficult?”

“Difficult? No, John, _complex_.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t fun anymore. Mycroft had to arrange this for you and yet you still can’t get it right.”

John’s gotten rather good at reading Sherlock’s expressions by now; almost non-stop exposure to a person does that to you. He’ll never be as good as the man himself at spotting a lying twitch in the corner of the mouth, or an untrustworthy glint in an eye, but he knows Sherlock’s face like Sherlock knows London. He won’t admit that sometimes, when he’s alone, John will lie on the sofa and close his eyes just to see Sherlock’s face behind his eyelids. It’s like a map to him; a map of smiles and winks and frowns and places that, if John caresses, or kisses, or traces with his tongue, will induce responses that seem a mile away from their current conversation. John feels almost sick thinking about the intimacy of the gesture, and the moments he’s shared with the man sitting across from him. The man that, right now, is staring back at him like he’s… like he’s _Moriarty_.

That hurts.

“What are you insinuating?” Sherlock snarls and John immediately regrets opening his mouth, being honest, standing up for himself. He forgets that he’s not part of a relationship, is he? Relationship may not be the word; ‘dictatorship’ seems closest. But he’s too far gone now.

“Your _great plan_ ’s worked. This is not fun, it’s horrible, and I want to go home.” John dumps his napkin on the empty space of tablecloth where his plate is soon to occupy, “But before you start gloating, it’s not the location or the food or the _champagne_ that’s ruined tonight. It’s the company.”

Sherlock grabs the edge of the table and pushes himself upwards like there’s a voltage running through his chair. He’s striding away from the table and towards the door before John can even begin to realise how unfair this is, _he_ should be the one storming off, not Sherlock. And how this always happens. As his companion disappears through the double doors held open by willing but perplexed assistants, John grabs his champagne flute by the stem and gulps the last of the liquid down in one. Then he gets up to follow him.

He knows he shouldn’t; he knows how it’s going to go and he hates himself for this. But he’s John Watson, and John Watson respects authority. There’s a faint nausea building in his stomach as he comprehends what this means: Sherlock holds the authority now. Over his actions, over their relationship… over his _life_ , in actuality.

John has to remind himself that there’s a reason he lets him do this. And his military career isn’t the sole reason that he’s running through The Ritz Restaurant, looking decidedly lower class.

When he catches up with the Consulting Detective outside on the pavement John feels better about disgracing himself, but the relief is short-lived. Sherlock’s discarded his jacket – where it’s gone John can’t see; the pavement is mirroring the inky blackness of the sky – and is pacing through puddles, back and forth, hands up by his head like he’s been frozen mid- frustrated grab. John watches him for a moment: stomping through the stagnant rainwater without a care for his shoes, rippling the moon’s reflection in the water like the juddering picture at the end of an old-fashioned movie reel. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, something about the solar system, but there are more pressing matters than the conjuring up of English Language techniques.

“Why am I _always_ the one following you?” John starts, then realises that for once he’s the one being tactless. He feels that Sherlock might just deserve this one, though; no matter what apparent state of distress he’s in.

The detective stops his pacing; he wheels around on his left heel, dropping his arms, “Because you’re an idiot.”

John feels unjustly offended.

“And I’m a pitiful excuse for a human being-” Sherlock looks up; even through the tainted London darkness his glorious eyes are still shining, “Don’t… don’t contradict me. John, don’t.”

It’s in this moment that all thoughts of indignance and rejection evaporate, and John discovers that he’s actually seeing… Sherlock Holmes looks – although he’s unsure; the darkness could be warping his perception – _vulnerable_. And for as long as John’s known him, self-deprecation has never been in his repertoire. It’s a bizarre transformation from the arrogance and pomposity that had infiltrated their dinner, and John doesn’t even want to think about the possibility that this may all be a façade.

Because, God, he doesn’t even know why anymore but he has _faith_ in Sherlock Holmes.

“I may be an idiot for putting up with you but I’m pretty sure there’s a reason I do.”

“Temporary insanity? Bereavement of judgement? Memory loss?”

John closes his eyes briefly and lets his breath hiss out of his nose. “Sherlock, you know why.” The man in question bows his head, and John’s not sure if this is a good sign or not but he doesn’t want to stop and think. “So now can you tell me what the bloody hell is up because I haven’t seen you, how you were at the dinner, this irritable, in a long time. And that’s a feat: you, being noticeably irritable.”

It’s as if the reminder of the dinner sparks off an almost dormant chain of reactions in Sherlock’s brain; it’s nearly magnificent, in a way, how he can transfigure from dejection back to incensed right in front of John’s eyes. Sherlock’s eyebrows collide and his hands rise up to knit in his hair; his gaze shifts from the moon’s reflection to its actual presence in the sprawling blankness of the sky.

“Just… argh!” The noise of disgust seems to ripple the air around them, “He knew what I was going to say and then he did this. I should never have even told him. I don’t know why I did! You know, sometimes I wonder about this feud and I think to myself, why don’t we just be friends? Why don’t we _bury the hatchet_ and be brothers again? And then he does things like this. He just goes ahead and… no concern for anyone else, not what I feel, why does that matter? If it makes sense to _him_ , surely I’ll just come around eventually.” He turns to John and his eyes are shining still; whether with anger or tears John can’t really tell. “With other things, I can deal with his insane meddling. But not this. Not _you_. I refuse to let that bastard dictate you; you’re too… you don’t deserve it. Perhaps I do. But not you.”

“Sherlock, stop, I don’t follow.”

“Mycroft devised this whole… this… I’m going to kill him, I really am.”

“Sherlock!” John reaches out to grab his forearm, “Just tell me what’s going on. Then you can set about killing Mycroft. Okay?”

Sherlock makes a noise that sounds like “okay”, but there’s barely any sound to it at all. John’s still doesn’t know how he’s managed to make Sherlock Holmes _meek_ , but he prefers it to irate, anyway. The detective allows himself to be led to a low brick wall that encloses an urban garden, and receives the hand John places on his shoulder.

“Now, do you feel calm enough to tell me what just happened?”

“I’m hardly calm, John-”

“Shut up. Well, no, don’t shut up. But stop _doing that_ … putting your guard up.”

There’s real apology on Sherlock’s features, so John slides the hand on his shoulder round Sherlock’s back until he’s almost encircling him. This isn’t met by protest, which John takes as a very good sign.

Sherlock precedes his speech with a cough and a prolonged stare at the floor. “I was an idiot. I had this idea… about tonight. And I told Mycroft, which I never should have done, and I admit it was an error in my judgement; I forgot that man is incapable of thinking of anyone but himself.”

“Don’t forget, you were like that once.”

“Yes. Once. So I receive a call and it’s actually from him this time, telling me that… that _he doesn’t think I treat you properly_. I think his exact words were ‘appallingly badly’, and I don’t expect you to disagree. But I don’t think that my brother should be the one to pass judgement about my relationship with you. So I may have snapped at him and inadvertently revealed my idea. And out of _revenge_ , or just an act of pure spite in retaliation, I suppose, he arranged this. Our ‘date’. Said that I would never do it, so he would have to do it for me. And there you go.”

“Wait, what- what ‘idea’? You said you had an ‘idea’ about tonight?”

Sherlock immediately begins to mutter, and John can decipher this kind of muttering: between “stupid, _stupid_ idea” and “inane… I wasn’t even thinking”, Sherlock is actually embarrassed. And John will forgive him his sidestepping of the question, because he can’t recall a time he’s ever seen Sherlock Holmes _embarrassed_. So John waits a moment, and gently increases the pressure around Sherlock’s shoulder. And waits. Because this is unknown territory, and it’s scary but it’s beautiful.

Eventually, Sherlock forms words that actually have meaning.

“You see it on television, these puerile, _vapid_ programmes, and it seems easy. They make it seem like something I can do. But I… I don’t think I can. It’s tarnished now. Mycroft just _waved his magic wand_ and spoiled everything, yet again.”

“Mycroft hasn’t spoiled anything.” John counteracts. Sherlock looks up at him; he almost could be smiling.

“So he’s not cheapened it for you? Certainly feels that way to me.”

“Cheapened what?”

Sherlock looks away and bites down on his bottom lip, the pressure making the blood flee from the spot. He stares out for so long that John doesn’t expect it when he turns back with a sharp jerk of the head and a look on his face that John really should remember, because he’s not likely to get it again.

“That I find myself in love with you.”

The world stops. Every bird in every tree, each wisp of grass standing to attention in the garden behind them; every cloud shuffling across the sky. The Earth stops turning and every cell in every human body stops dividing and the wind halts and the sun stops producing heat and it _doesn’t fucking matter_. Not anymore. John feels like this could be the beginning of the apocalypse and he won’t rightly care, thank you; he’ll be laughing as the Earth swallows itself because why does it matter? Any of it? Not when his universe is sitting in front of him, and he’s not even embarrassed to admit that his entire existence is encapsulated in the eyes of the man staring back at him. John can’t remember when his life became Sherlock Holmes, but he remembers when Sherlock Holmes became his life.

And this life… is love.

God, he should never try and be poetic.

So, understandably, John hates himself for the response that comes out of his lips. To be fair it’s the only reaction his brain is capable of forming in cohorts with his vocal chords, but it’s hardly worth the effort John knows it took Sherlock to say the four words that preceded it.

“Oh.”

Sherlock’s face remains static and John wonders if this is all just a bad dream after all; the world’s frozen and he’s the only one that’s going to escape. He doesn’t want that. No. If he’s asleep he’s got to find some way of waking up from the night terror, his subconscious playing tricks on him…

“Sherlock, I love you, too.”

It’s then that he breaks. They both break. Lips meet lips and arms are wound around until they’re not sure if they’ll ever be able to untangle themselves, but like they even want to. “Oh God” and “John” and “Sherlock” are gasped out, whispered, cherished, moaned like they’re not in a public place, like this isn’t the end of the night they’ve just had. Like they’re not supposed to have to thank Mycroft for this, because they really won’t.

Like they love each other.

Because they do. In time John will realise how significant this moment is, and Sherlock will deny that he ever let his emotions get the better of him. But they’ll know. Next time there’s a head in the fridge, or a near-death experience, or violin seeping through the plaster at three in the morning, they’ll remember this and they’ll know.

-

The elder Holmes picks up on the first ring.

“Any progress?”

“Certainly, sir. Your initiative was successful.”

“So he told him?”

“Correct, sir.”

“Marvellous. He wouldn’t have done it otherwise, I am sure of it. So what is their status now?”

“Active, sir.”

“ _Active_?”

“Extremely active, sir. Should we maintain video surveillance?”

Mycroft laughs, long and low, down the receiver.

“Most definitely.”

-


End file.
